2 Items for the Agenda

Ahem...Hello everyone, is this thing on?...Testing, testing, sibilance, sibilance...testing. Okay good.

First item of Business

As you may or may not be aware, Abby and I have not been so diligent in updating our blog lately. As such, we have been receiving numerous strong-arm tactics from certain individuals (we know who you are), i.e. death threats. These treacheries have not gone unnoticed and shall be handled in a timely fashion. The lack of updating is not due to a lack of caring on our part, or the fact that we are trying to live our lives in secrecy. Neither of these accusations holds any merit. It is more the fact that there truly hasn't been too much to write about in the recent days, until now.

Second Item of Business

"The Village Idiot"

Since most of the people reading this blog live in Utah, and are vehemently aware of the quirky Utah liquor laws, I figure that you would appreciate this story. It has been fabled, that every village needs/has an idiot. Until last Saturday evening, Abby and I still had not found one in our new settlement. Perhaps, we thought, it was one of us. To our relief/disdain, we found out who the village idiot was on Saturday, and it certainly wasn't us. Abby and I were invited to A Friend From Work's (yes, his real name is A Friend From Work, didn't you notice the use of capitols to depict a proper noun. Read your Gregg!) Super Bowl party. It was discussed that Abby and I would bring the beer, guacamole (Dad's recipe), and other peripherals to the party.

In PA, you are required to buy beer from one of two outposts. The first being a "Beer Distributor", which is a place that you can only buy beer in bulk. Think of this as the Costco for Alcoholics; the second is a regular bar. If you intend to purchase a small amount of beer, that is anything two six packs and under, a regular bar would be your typical destination. As the Super Bowl is the longest football game known to man, thanks to the 5 hr pregame and the Super-sized version of half-time, I figured that Beer-Costco would be the appropriate destination.

Abby and I were on our way home from a fabulous day of spending her hard-earned Christmas cash (thank you to all of you that contributed!); I decided we should stop to at Beer-Costco to get some beer for the party. Abby was pretty worn out from the tireless day of trying on clothes (bless her heart) that she decided to stay in the vehicle. I opened the door and it was literally "beer-vana"; Cases upon cases of the fermented hops stacked as high as the eye could see. It was almost too good to me true. After 10 minutes of deliberating, I finally settled on the 24-Pack of St. Pauli Girl Special Dark. I had never had St. Pauli Girl Special Dark, but damn if it didn't sound special. I had to get it. I placed the case of StPGSD on the counter with the full confidence in my decision. I had made my choice. Nothing could go wrong now. Enter the village idiot.

"May I see your ID please."

"No problem," I thought, I was born in 1984, so remembering arithmetic from elementary (carry the one...) that makes me 24, and according to the 21st Amendment to the Constitution that repealed prohibition, I was well within my legal rights to obtain said StPGSD. I pulled the 4 year old ID from the place that had housed it for the last 4-years of its life and confidently handed it over to the clerk. Assuming that this was his first time to see a Utah license, I decided to make a little joke.

"Bet you don't see a whole lot of Utahans buying beer around these parts, eh? (Yes, Nick, I went Canadian on him). Well actually you don't see a whole lot of Utahans buying in Utah."

No response. Evidently, he was in no mood for comedic relief.

He investigated my license for a few minutes; turning it over, reviewing the back...flipping it back over. He alternated between staring at the photo on the ID and gazing back at me. This went on for about 15 seconds, very awkward. Still the jury was out. He reached under the counter and pulled out his Funk and Wagnall on State licenses.

"I would start with the U's," I joshed with the comedic timing of a young Johnny Carson.

Not even a smirk. Another failed attempt. He would get no more jokes from me.

He perused this book as if it were his bible. Taking my license and placing it next to 'black and white' picture of the Utah licenses. Pulling it away, and then placing it next to it again.

"What could possibly be taking so long, does he need a calculator to check my age?"

Finally, he put the book back. I was reaching into my wallet to pull out the debit card to purchase the St.PGSD, when I heard this little number...

"I can't sell you this beer."

"Como what?!" Did I hear him correctly? "Excuse me sir, (I was attempting the niceties at this point) what is that matter?"

"I can't verify that your license is valid."

"Strange, the great State of Utah seems to be pretty proud of it. What is your issue with it?" "In the book it says that the license is supposed to be all blue, and yours has a little brown line across the top. So therefore I can't accept It."

"You mean the brown line right there?" as I pointed to the leather-wear on the ID. Because you know, it had been there for the last 4 YEARS!

"Yeah, it looks faked and I am not going to risk a $4000 dollar fine to sell you $40 dollars with of StPGSD."

"Don't you find it a little coincidental that that line corresponds perfectly with my wallet color and just so happens to rub against it in the same place. For god's sake man, this isn't rocket science." At this point I realized that I wasn't going to get anywhere with this idiot. So I decided that I would send in the troops. "Strength in numbers", "Always use the buddy system" were the thoughts running through my head. He didn't know it at the time, but I was bringing in the big guns. Abby. Let's be honest, what self respecting Beer-Costco clerk says, "No!" to a beautiful woman.

Well it was settled, he wasn't a self-respecting Beer-Costco clerk.

As soon as Abby and I walked back in there, he looked at her and said, "If you are with him, I cannot sell you the beer either. I can't verify his license and I am not going to sell you anything."

For those of you who are familiar with the lovable, gregarious, congenial Abby. Stop reading now, the story ends there for you. For the rest of us who know that Abby can also have her "Twilight-book-openings" side, please read on.

"Are you kidding me? That is the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard."

I kept whispering in her ear, "Abby, it's not worth it, let's just go."

"No, this guy is an idiot! He won't even look at my license to verify it? I can't believe this. You are so rude! Just because we have different looking licenses you aren't going to sell us the beer. What a joke! Dude, do you not believe that we are 21?"

"Nope."

At this point I was thrilled. Wow, I haven't aged a bit. It must be that new facial crème I have been using. Note to self...

"Abby it isn't worth spending our money here, the guy is evidently a little slow and isn't worth our time."

Completely fumed, Abby and I left the Beer-Costco empty-handed. Great, we still had no beer for the party. We still needed to grab some 'Goose for the cranberry martinis that we would be enjoying, so we stopped at the State-owned Wine & Spirits store. Abby and I walked over the bottle of 'Goose, grabbed it, set it up on the register. The lady looked at us with a very welcoming smile and said those magical words, "That'll be $21.25 please."

Apparently, we are able to buy hard liquor at a state-owned venue, but are turned back at the local Beer-Costco. I thought we Americans were passed the whole discrimating stage, and maybe we have, but on that night, in the local Beer-Costco. Abby and I were taken back, way back, to 2004.